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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27017251">Grey</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrivingArtist/pseuds/StrivingArtist'>StrivingArtist</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Bucky Barnes, Asexual Natasha Romanov, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality Spectrum, But it's me, Coming Out, Consequences, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Consent, F/M, Fuck Or Die, Heavy Angst, Life threatening medical events, Not Steve Rogers Friendly, Phil Coulson isn't dead, Sex Pollen, Suffering, and Explicit Refusal, bucky barnes deserves the world, consequences of sex pollen, so you're gonna suffer a lot first</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 02:47:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,823</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27017251</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrivingArtist/pseuds/StrivingArtist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It's easy to follow someone's requests when there's nothing on the line. It's easy to listen to consent or refusal when there are no consequences.<br/>When it's a matter of life and death, love doesn't always mean saving someone.<br/>___</p>
<p>Aka: Sex Pollen fic without any sex, dealing with the consequences, for WinterWidow's happily asexual relationship</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>110</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Before</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This whole fic is one big minefield of potential triggers for anyone Ace, and anyone who is sensitive to issues of consent. There is a full set of spoilers in the end notes if you want to check yourself. </p><p>But! This is horrific angst, written in a very tight POV. This is raw and painful and unforgiving. Please mind the tags.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>One of the led bulbs down the hall was out, but the others, the ones nearby, were bright and sharp, washing everything with a sterile glow of white. White on white. The ceiling and walls were seamless white plaster. The baseboard was white rubber. The linoleum tiles were white, with flecks of a near identical tone breaking it up. The labels were etched into white plexiglass plates and hung on the walls beside white doors, with white trim, and which opened via the white plane of glass connected to the Tower’s computer system. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha, with grey dirt on her black uniform, and red under her nails, left tracks as she moved. The door to the bathroom creaked, and thunked as it swung closed behind her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her throat burned from the acid and she swallowed her instinct to rush back to the toilet. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One step. Another. Three more. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a bump out in the wall where the extra cables for the Avengers floors ran behind the plaster. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As she leaned into the wall, her shoulder hit the six inch ledge of that bump, and she slid down, streaking a line of grey onto the pristine white of the paint, until she found the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That morning, she completed the mission, got the data that Coulson wanted, wiped the files, set the bombs, and made sure that her compromised teammates were clear of the complex before anything detonated. Bruce had the med-evac jet waiting for them, and she piloted them home as Clint, Tony, Steve and Bucky showered in the solo decontamination pods. Sam gave them all the standard checkup after exposure to an unknown chemical agent, and found little more than elevated pulses. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They laughed at it on the flight home.The heavy hitters in the Avengers got blasted in the face with sparkly purple glitter. It was funny. They were going to have to take the protocol-required week long benching if Bruce and the team didn’t isolate what the compound did to them, but none of them were upset about a short vacation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That was six hours ago. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bruce was very good. Tony was cogent then, and able to get Jarvis working on analyzing the samples. They bounced the data to trusted team members around the world, who rapidly checked for anything critical or dangerous. Natasha let Sam take over the controls for a few minutes so she could check on her boyfriend; James brushed off her silent inquiry at his health with a joke and a laugh, pinching her leg with his metal fingers when she threatened to fuss over him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Six hours ago, she’d been formulating plans to set up a glitter bomb during their next training session. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Five hours ago, when they were halfway home, as Steve started making out with Tony with more gusto than public decorum considered acceptable, Helen Cho sent a data packet that identified the primary purpose of the powder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Coulson had been thorough in his on-boarding paperwork when he abandoned the remnants of Shield to keep the Avengers’ collective ducks in a row. Exceptionally thorough. They all filled out forms for possibilities that even they, and their ludicrous lives, found silly. Like a drunk teenager was playing would you rather with their friends, and a government bureaucrat transcribed it as a to-do list. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They all filed forms on what they’d want done during their own funeral. Who their life insurance paid out to. Whether they would want to lose an arm, or a leg. Whether they would rather lose two legs, two arms, or one of each, and if it was the latter, which side. They had written clarification memos for what they considered to be an acceptable risk to retrieve them from captivity, with separate decision trees for if they were alive or dead. Coulson had forms for everything Shield had ever seen. Then he made more for every potential possibility, and they filed forms for those too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The concrete dust from their initial assault was gone from her hands, but the scratches still drew a map over her palms. The blood under her nails wasn’t her own, but she felt no drive to leave her post and wash it away. That was why she hadn’t scrubbed it clean while she stood in the bathroom before. There wasn’t time. Not when she needed to be there for him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A handful of water splashed into her mouth to clear the worst of the acrid burn on her tongue, and then she left. She needed to be here. To witness this, in whatever way she could, since there was nothing else available. To protect him, and help him, in the only way she could. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Behind the white door across from her, in a room with remote monitoring, a bed, water bottles and snacks, was the man she loved, slowly dying from the compound he’d been exposed to on a mission. James was in there, alone, worsening by the minute, and she was sitting on the floor, leaving smudges like echoes of the mission responsible. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She couldn't save him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Neither could anyone else. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A fresh jet escorted Clint to a rendezvous with his wife. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve and Tony nearly defiled the jet, and were now upstairs, defiling the penthouse where they lived. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sam took one look at her as James shook off her hands, and told her he would handle the debrief. Bruce was in the labs, looking for neutralizing agents with the help of the world’s best and brightest. Coulson was tapping into the collective knowledge of Shield, hoping to find a rumor that would steer Bruce in a more productive direction. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Natasha was sitting on cheap, cold plastic flooring, staring at the door that separated her from the man she loved. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Her wrist beeped, informing her of updates.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The same remote monitoring that watched James was tracking the vitals and the concentration of the chemical in the others. Clint’s numbers had gotten worrying two hours ago, but were starting to trend downward after a long plateau. He’d reached his wife. Tony’s were dropping exponentially. Steve’s were slower to fall, but they </span>
  <em>
    <span>were </span>
  </em>
  <span>now falling. Without prompting, the information scrolled, and set James’ numbers back into place for her to watch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Higher levels of the compound than the others, with vitals that were rapidly approaching dangerous. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha wasn’t sure if it was a mercy or a curse that the walls were soundproofed, and there were no cameras to hack. She wasn’t sure she could keep herself from watching if it was available. It would horrify her, scar her, but it was as close as he would get to letting her hold him. If all she could do was witness, she wasn’t strong enough to look away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It took two hours to get back to the Tower, where the medical team swarmed them. It took another hour to confirm that the four who were exposed needed intervention to neutralize the effects of the bio-weapon. It took about five minutes to verify that Steve and Tony had already started on an effective self-treatment. Clint got on his private jet. James walked into that room, shaking, and blind to the people around him, unaware that she stayed at his side until he slammed the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It took another hour for her to make the nurses stop talking to her. They gave up when she stopped letting them within arms reach, muttering about finding Coulson to wrangle disobedient Avengers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Alone, Natasha walked herself into the bathrooms, vomited until there was nothing left to expel but acid, and then sat down to wait. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Coulson was very thorough in his paperwork. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had the Avengers prepare for every contingency. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha didn’t need him to bring up a copy of James’ forms to know what he would have written on the one that mattered today. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For all intents and purposes, the love of her life had been hit with sex pollen, they had no idea if it would eventually be fatal, and she knew, more surely than she knew herself, that he had signed his name beneath the box that refused all intervention of a sexual nature. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It didn’t matter what the tabloids printed about WinterWidow every week. It didn’t matter that the team joked about how flexible she was and how long a super soldier could last. It didn’t matter that they both knew how to be the best sexual encounter of a target’s life. It didn’t matter that they’d slept beside each other every night for months. It didn’t matter that Natasha would have gladly crossed her own comfort zone for his sake. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>None of it mattered, because she knew him, she loved him, and she would make sure that his decision was respected. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her wrist beeped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James’ numbers ticked higher as the chemical started to overwhelm his body’s defenses. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She recognized the indicators in his vitals that said he was in pain. Agony. James hadn’t said a word after Cho updated them - wouldn’t make eye contact with her - but the others had. They’d talked and rambled and listed out every detail of what they were feeling. At first it was with a soft frustration, like they were describing a cold. Then it got sharper, less metaphoric, more explicit. It turned into shouted demands. The demands got vulgar, and she watched James shrink into himself.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>None of them knew what the chemical’s final purpose and effect was, only what the current impact was doing to them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tony’s numbers flashed again on her wrist. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The hypothesis was correct. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sex burned through it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Masturbation didn’t work, or Clint’s numbers would have dropped sooner. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It required sex with another person. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somewhere beneath the chill leaching into her bones from the cold of the floor and the wall, Natasha felt a flash of anger at that. It didn’t make sense. The chemical impact of masturbation was nearly identical they should have been able to stab them all with a cocktail of hormones and wipe this out. But someone had weaponized sex, and since there was no purpose in a group developing that in the first place, there was a lingering fear at what happened when it was gone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The cold around her was too thick for her to show a reaction. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Where it pressed against the ground, she could feel the bones of her pelvis turning pressure into pain. She needed to adjust. Instead, she stayed there, arms resting on top of her knees, eyes trained to the door, and the data on her inner wrist. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe, given some time, they could work out a synthetic alternative. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It wouldn’t help James though. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nothing was going to help James. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Time turned into syrup around her. One of the nurses returned, set a bottle of electrolyte  water beside her, and vanished. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Occasionally, even through the Stark-designed soundproofing, she got a wisp of something. A vibration through the floor, felt more than heard.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was in there, straining against the pain, probably leaving dents in the metal of the bedframe. His eyes would be wide, a flush would turn his tan skin from the sweet healthy blush she enjoyed provoking, to the blotchy red of illness. His breathing, always even, always controlled, still a sniper after so many years, would be ragged and harsh. His hands would shake. His clothes would be soaked with sweat. His hair would fall into his eyes when his writhing in a desperate search for comfort pulled it from the tie. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was alone, and he might be dying, and she was sitting against a wall ten feet away, allowing it to happen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her wrist beeped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tony was almost clear. Clint’s recovery was starting to accelerate. Steve was trending down at a consistent pace. Another hour and he would be through. None of them knew what that meant, but it was better than being in acute danger. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James’ blood pressure was now high enough he would have been evac’d from the field if they were on a mission. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The ache in her back was turning into the kind of pain she associated with bruised bones. It would lessen if she released the tension in her frame, let her ams go slack, let her spine slouch, let her head rest against the corner. She took a breath, accepted that the pain was a part of her, and stopped noticing it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something fell in the room, sending a heavy vibration through the floor. His vitals didn’t shift. Natasha didn’t move. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Kind enough, and smart enough to know the danger if he didn’t, Coulson cleared his throat as he approached the corner, so she would know he was coming. She felt his eyes on her, but refused to shift from her allowed positions.   </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t know you’d read the Winter Soldier’s full emergency paperwork, Widow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I haven’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So you’ve only read his PV4-67?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I haven’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You haven’t requested override access for the door, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I haven’t,” she confirmed, eyes flicking to the scroll of information to see that Steve’s numbers were now dropping rapidly. It would be less than an hour. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A shadow cast over her as Coulson stepped closer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re correct about what he filed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They’re looking for an antidote to this, Natasha.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her wrist beeped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They won’t be fast enough.” Her voice was neutral, like a mission debrief. Her emotions all fell away when James slammed the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Coulson stayed quiet for a moment, then dropped to sit beside her, keeping a careful distance between them as he mimicked her pose. He didn’t ask her anything else, but she could see the file folder he was carrying. Printed. There were digital copies on secure servers, but all of the originals were physical. Real paper and real ink held by real hands as a person decided what they did and didn’t want done to save their life. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He would destroy them if she asked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The realization hit her like a gunshot, suddenly, with a slow bloom of pain chasing it. She could ask, and Coulson would destroy the form, unfile it, override the system so the door would open and she could save James’ life when he was incoherent from a bio-weapon. It would be easy to do, and she was confident she could avoid either James injuring himself or injuring her. It could be done. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She could step into that room, strip out of her clothes, and rape him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha wasn’t a good person. Too much red for that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She was stained filthy with murder and torture and seduction and threats and treason and betrayals and violence and death. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If he was a target, she would already be in the room. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If he was an enemy, she wouldn’t have hesitated. Her body was a weapon, and sex was one more way to wield it against her enemies.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her wrist beeped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James wasn’t an enemy. He wasn’t some sweet idol of a man. He was scarred. It was rare he felt enough like his old self to tolerate being called Bucky. There were weeks of time when even kissing her was impossible because he feared the programming was too close to the surface. He was wounded and damaged and healing, searching for himself in the wreckage left behind after decades of harm. He explored himself constantly. He looked for pieces to rediscover. Pieces that were new. He didn’t know himself most days, and clung fiercely to those scraps that he felt certain about. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But Natasha </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew </span>
  </em>
  <span>him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She knew that he hated the protein drinks they used on missions for the super soldiers, because the ones in Hydra weren’t as gritty. She knew he emptied his wallet whenever he saw someone begging on the street. She knew he loved the smell of lavender and hated when restaurants put it into food. She knew he sometimes wore delicate silk and lace under his clothes as a reminder that he was more than a weapon. She knew he wasn’t always comfortable telling her things, but trusted her enough to let her work it out through context and observation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She knew him. She loved him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This wasn’t about what she wanted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James made his decision with a clear mind, and nothing in their time together made her doubt him, or made her think he’d changed his preference.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was easy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Coulson heard her silence as the message it was, and let her be. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Too long sitting there, and they’d send someone to force her to move, but that was hours and hours away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her wrist beeped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tony was clear. Steve was close. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James was in the early stages of total organ failure. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A message from Sam and Bruce appeared. They’d identified the full structure of the compound. That would be helpful if they encountered this again. They were optimistic about finding a cure. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha swiped back to James’ vitals and left the message unanswered. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Science wouldn’t be a part of this today. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d survive it, or he wouldn’t. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d known that when he signed the form. He’d known it when he shut down on the plane, when he kept everyone away from him in medical, when he closed the door and locked them all on the other side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha was still in uniform. She was still armed, a stain of color in a pristine place.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No matter how bad the numbers looked, they didn’t know if this was fatal without intervention. It was supposed to have been impossible. None of them were ever supposed to need what was on that form. No one knew what this chemical would do, so no one could tell them the consequence of James’ choice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If this was a certainty, she knew that James would have taken a gun off of her, and vanished into that room for the last time. As sure as she’d known how he filled out that form, she knew that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Distantly, hollowly, coldly, she wondered if the room would have blocked her from hearing the sound of the bullet, or if the only sign would have been the thump of a weight landing on the floor. It would be kinder, if this was fatal, to let it be a fast end. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She had all of her weapons.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That had to mean something. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She’d stared down death enough to know what it felt like, what it smelled like. She knew when it was stalking her. James knew death better than she ever would. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t take her gun. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He didn’t think this would kill him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her wrist beeped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The cold was deep enough in her fingers they were getting stiff. Her throat ached from the lingering trace of acid, and the mundane tightness of thirst. Her mouth tasted miserable. There was a water bottle beside her. She didn’t move to drink it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her wrist beeped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve was clear. Clint was nearly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The leader of the Avengers was pinging his team to check in and report. Clint’s wife sent a short message that Clint wasn’t up to typing, but was improving. Sam sent an update from the scientists, filled with quotes from Bruce and an optimism she didn’t feel. Tony and Steve reported that they were starving, sore, a bit nauseous and exhausted, but were now thinking clearly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha didn’t answer. She had nothing to say. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They had access to the same remote monitoring she was watching. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She knew they found it when her comlink buzzed in her pocket. She didn’t answer them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Stark’s penthouse was four floors above Medical. Coulson’s office was six floors below medical. Coulson got to her first, paperwork in hand, and a grim expression on his face when he stopped in front of James’ door. Natasha looked at him until he understood, and stepped to the side. It didn’t matter, it didn’t help, but it was hers, and that was enough to make him move. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve and Tony arrived from the other end of the hall, afraid. That word wasn’t enough for what she saw in them, but trying to find more was impossible. One glance at them before she returned her eyes to the door, that was all they got. They were dressed in color. Riotous, mismatched, vibrant. Deep blue and dark red. Bright green, yellow, cyan. They grabbed whatever was close and came immediately after seeing what was happening to James. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sam arrived, half-changed out of his uniform, with a hoodie half-zipped over what was left. It was purple. Bruce’s from the lab for when it got cold. A gag gift after the material for the Hulk-pants was chemically purple by necessity.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They gathered around her, and none of them blocked her view. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They were watching her in heavy silence, filling in the gaps as they realized what it meant that she was where she was. That she was on the wrong side of the door.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her wrist beeped. James’ heart rate made sense if he was racing the hundred yard dash and no longer a super soldier. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Natasha?” Steve shouted after seeing the same data. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It unleashed something. Steve and Tony demanded explanations. Sam tried to tell them what Bruce had found. Coulson wasn’t yelling, he never yelled, but he was speaking, low and even, about advance medical decrees and the right to refuse treatment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She didn’t hear most of it, watching as the blood oxygen level on her wrist wavered, then stabilized well below a healthy level. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So why the hell isn’t his girlfriend in there, then, huh?” Tony snapped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha moved her eyes back to the door, trusting that Coulson would answer. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sergeant Barnes has filed the same paperwork as the rest of the team, including PV4-67C. After reasserting his decision when offered assistance, he closed the door, which locked per Tower, and Avenger protocols. Jarvis is following the Sergeant’s medical decisions, and neither Ms Romanov, nor anyone else will be allowed inside with him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“This isn’t a medical decision!” Steve bellowed, “This is life and death! It was horrible, it hurt, and - look at his vitals in there! - we aren’t going to let him die because half a year ago he didn’t think he’d want to have sex with somebody!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That isn’t your choice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m his medical proxy.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And currently that is superseded by form PV4-67C.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her wrist beeped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Bucky isn’t going to die of some fucking sex pollen, Coulson!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha saw him moving. She’d trained with him enough to recognize the way he coiled muscles for a blow against an object rather than a person. She knew how it varied when he was tired instead of fresh to a fight. Steve moved to break down the door, and Natasha pulled her gun. Shooting out the bulb above her barely reduced the brightness in the hall, but it froze her teammates in place as she adjusted to aim it at his chest, while glass rained down on her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It gave Steve a new target for his anger. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A moment later she was lifted from the ground, and slammed against the door to James’ room, a mute threat of how he would get inside. Her legs screamed at her as they unbent, her back screeched at the way the impact made her aching muscles tighten. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re going to go in there, and you’re going to help him,” he hissed. “I don’t care what some stupid form says, you’re going to save him. You’re going to save his life. Hydra didn’t kill him, this isn’t going to. I don’t care about Coulson’s forms. Bucky deserves better than someone that thinks some piece of paper is more important than his life. The two of you have done it before, so I don’t fucking care about a stupid fucking form.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Steve,” Sam reached out, only to be casually shoved across the hall one handed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha shifted so the barrel of the gun pressed against Steve’s thigh. It wouldn’t be fatal, but it would stop him. He barely noticed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know you have your baggage about the Red Room,” acrid and biting, every word out of Steve’s mouth landed like a blow, “but if you’ll put it aside to seduce Tony while he’s dying, you can damn well put it aside to save the life of the man you claim to love.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her wrist beeped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They both glanced to look. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You don’t even care about him. You don’t. You’d rather follow along with orders than show some compassion.” Steve looked nauseous, like he was going to puke. Behind him, she saw Sam and Coulson rapidly talking to Tony, to keep him from bringing Iron Man into the situation, or to keep him from overriding Jarvis’ protocols. “That’s it? You don’t care enough to disobey? Fuck you, Romanov. You say you love him. You say that? You love him? </span>
  <em>
    <span>I love him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That’s my best friend, that’s my brother, I just got him back, and I’m not going to let him die because his girlfriend isn’t in the mood for sex. If that means I have to go in there myself I will, because I love him enough to give him anything if it means he lives.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha saw the blow coming. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was telegraphing badly in his post-coital, post-bio-weapon state. Three hits loosened his hold on her, and let her get the space she needed to pistol whip him across the temple. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The hallway froze again, inverted, now with Steve on the ground and Natasha standing over him, her gun once more aimed at his chest. Before she could fire, and before he could force her to, Coulson’s calm voice interrupted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I didn’t realize you condoned sexual assault, Captain.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tony dropped to the ground next to Steve, one hand behind his neck, and the other trying to turn him by the chin, frantic in his motions. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Steve, you know that we’re both fucked up right now, but Steve, baby, you need to stop for a second and think--”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha knew that look. It was the one that James gave her when they were pinned down in Peru and couldn’t get to Steve’s position. She didn’t know which of them learned it from the other, but she knew the soul-deep kind of tormented love she was looking at. Backed against the wall with a gun held at the head of someone they loved unequivocally, and unwilling to accept that there was no way out of the situation. She knew the stories from their childhood. James probably had the look first. Built it during all the times when his best friend was dying, and James refused to accept it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Their lips curled into twisted impersonations of a smile. Their eyes narrowed, their jaws tightened. Tears welled, nostrils flared. It was a brutal proof of what they meant to each other. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha knew there was nothing like it on her face. There was no emotion at all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This wasn’t about emotions. Not hers, not Steve’s. It wasn’t theirs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her wrist beeped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A glance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve did the same. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then they both jolted to read the data again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The chemical concentration was plummeting, breaking down or dissipating or finally defeated by the outraged system of a super soldier, she didn’t know. She didn’t care. It was dropping. She couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t going to kill him. He’d done it. He was going to be okay. He was going to live. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her arm slipped, and the gun dropped to her side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was going to be okay. She wasn’t going to lose him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her wrist beeped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So obsessed with the chemical saturation level, she hadn’t looked at any of the other numbers. Natasha didn’t hear the medical team until they rounded the corner. She didn’t know Jarvis had unlocked the door until the seal hissed at her back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The cause was gone but the damage remained. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Someone moved her out of the way so the team could get inside, dragging a cart of supplies. Sam. He had his arms around her, keeping her upright, and clear of the doctors. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The rest of the stats displayed on her wrist were falling off a cliff. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His heart rate slowed to nothing, then spiked. His oxygen levels were terrifying. His temperature was at 105. His organs were shutting down. He was having short strokes. He was dangerously dehydrated, all at once, like the chemical collapsing had boiled all the water from his body. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha took a step towards the door, needing to see him, to touch him, to hold his hand or his face or his damn feet, anything the doctors would allow so she could know he was alive, and so he could know she was there for him. She didn’t get to the door, she didn’t get inside. Sam was talking, explaining, telling her to let the doctors do their jobs. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sam steered her one way. She thought she saw Tony steering Steve. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her wrist beeped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James flatlined. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sam helped her find the ground without landing in glass. Steve lunged at her, and stopped when Tony put himself in the way. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her wrist beeped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James was alive again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She allowed it when Sam disarmed her. He slid the guns across the floor, away from the others, shoved the widow bites into his pocket, tossed the knives in their sheathes to join the guns. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her wrist beeped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Another flatline. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With the door open, she could hear them yell for adrenaline and epinephrine. She could hear the drone of the monitors the doctors brought in with them. The sound of stuttering breaths. The heavy whump of a body spasming. The rattle and creak of the carts as they were moved. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her wrist beeped. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve was yelling around tears about all the ways she’d failed them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wasn’t wrong. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But it didn’t change the decision. Over and over again, she would make the same decision. It wasn’t a question of what she wanted, or who she loved. If it would only hurt her, she’d have never let James close the door. It wasn’t. She knew that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She knew </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James died four more times in that room as he slipped into a coma. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It took an hour. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the doctors realized he’d stabilized in that state, inexplicably, unaffected by their efforts, but alive, they came into the hall to talk to James’ medical proxy. Steve rose. Natasha did the same, hovering in place in the small corner that was her post. Steve stepped into the room. Before she managed to shift, before she could follow and see with her own eyes that James was breathing, before she got proof beyond a scroll of numbers on her wrist, Steve was giving his first command. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“She’s not allowed near him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Steve, baby, come on,” Tony murmured. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No. If she doesn’t care about him enough to save him, she has no right to be near him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The door slammed shut, with her on the wrong side. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sam helped as she melted along the wall, returning to the ground, and her vigil.  There was a streak of grey across the door, vivid in a sea of white, the proof of how close she’d been. Sam knew better than to talk. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Two of the bulbs were out now, one a few steps away, and one directly over her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The hall was still bright white, marred with scuffs from shoes and wheels, marred by the presence of herself and Sam. Marred by the vivid blood where she’d cut her hand on the glass. He held onto her, as Nat settled into place to wait. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James was alive. It was the right choice. He’d wake up, he would be okay, and she would learn to be okay when Steve couldn’t forgive her for putting James’ choices above James’ life. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Spoiler/Trigger synopsis: Bucky is Ace, and is not out. He is in an asexual relationship with Natasha, and is sex-repulsed. He gets hit with sex pollen of a 'fuck or die' variety, where it is endangering his life not to have sex. He has paperwork filed that he does not want sexual contact, even if it risks or ends his life. Natasha follows his requests, and fights with Steve, who thinks that sex isn't a reason to let Bucky die. Steve is unaware his best friend is Ace, and says some cruel things when Natasha stops him from interfering.</p><p>Next parts coming in the next few days.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Interlude</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm a little stressed that this cleaves too close to the belief that Asexuality is just trauma, but this is Bucky, and its impossible to remove him from the history with Hydra, and the impacts it would have on him. Plus, he was alive before Ace Pride was a thing, so his understanding (and Steve's) are limited. </p>
<p>If anyone has extra notes, or tags I should add to this, please let me know.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Wait, why doesn’t this form let me specify which arm I’d wanna lose? Cause if there’s a choice, I’ve got a strong preference.” Bucky joked, waving at Coulson with metal fingers. It was a good day, ‘Bucky’ only felt like a new jacket, not like a foreign body.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Next page.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bucky flipped it over and groaned. Stevie and the rest had warned him before this appointment, scheduled to last all day, that No-Longer-an-Agent Coulson was thorough, but this was ridiculous. It had decision trees all the way down to which fingers were most important to him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He flipped through some more of the miniature mountain of paperwork that had been brought for him to fill. He was pretty sure he’d just seen a question about zombie parasites. He’d have stayed a random, intermittent consultant for the team if he could have, but with the number of cameras in citizen hands these days, it was almost impossible to avoid being ID’d. They had one, maybe two more missions before someone got good enough photos to confirm who he was. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This, apparently, was the better choice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So which did Stevie choose? Legs right? Cause I can’t see him happy without his hands. Same with Stark. Actually. Whole team is like that. Why d’you even have this form? No self respecting fighter’s gonna wanna lose an arm if they can lose a leg.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You would be surprised.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh yeah? Which one? Who wants to be my twin?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Coulson did the bland smile thing again. “Unfortunately for your curiosity, Sergeant, none of this information is made available to any other member of the team.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“So how’s it work then? If they don’t know what to save on us?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s all uploaded into Jarvis, who protects the privacy of it with the highest level of security, and activates if any of the trigger events occur. Local files are saved to everyone’s communicators in case you lose contact with the network.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James couldn’t argue against the effectiveness. A few seconds made the difference in saving a life, and having these decisions made and codified in advance would do that. He didn’t understand enough about how Jarvis worked to vouch for him as the keeper of the keys, but since the team let the AI run the Tower and the jet for them, he had to figure the guy could handle this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He finished the form, resisted the need to add encouragement to any future potential doctors about how he’d prefer to keep all of his remaining limbs, and glanced at the wrist mounted communicator thing that Stark shoved at him a week ago. It was a radio, a phone, a locator, a computer and a dozen other things besides, critical in the field, and primarily used outside the field for the sharing of internet jokes. Natasha was methodically spamming him with cat pictures and restaurant suggestions. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They were trying to find somewhere with good enough Russian food to avoid needing to fly to Minsk when they got snacky for fur coat salad.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bucky got a dumb grin as he scrolled through her commentary. She was a hell of a woman. She was probably just following Stevie’s order to the Avengers to welcome him into the group, but he wasn’t gonna argue about any time he got to spend around her. She was funny, and clever and sarcastic. She was gorgeous. She was brilliant. She knew more languages than he did. She could hold her own when sparring. She wasn’t afraid of him. Not once had she crossed a line or made him uncomfortable, even the lines he hadn’t told anyone existed. Tasha just saw them, and steered clear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For that, he’d gladly keep eating subpar pierogi every other night and putting on ridiculous disguises to go shopping. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Coulson cleared his throat to get him back on track. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Right. Next form. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>PV4-67A</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James skimmed through the overview, and cackled. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Come on, Coulson, really? Should the undersigned Avenger, during a mission, or outside of a mission, whether acting in their official capacity or not, encounter either through unintentional exposure, malicious attack, or naturally occurring phenomenon, any compound, agent, chemical, powder, aerosol, spore, or substance of currently unknown origin that carries the effect of increased sex drive to the point of fixation or obsession, the following actions are to be taken.’ Really?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Like something out of a pulp novel. He skimmed further, reading the assumed effects of this mysterious substance that may or may not exist, and glued his smirk in place to keep his horror a secret. You couldn’t script something better suited to hurt him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“In my line of work, Sergeant, it is best to be prepared for anything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Any line of work involving Steve oughta be prepared for anything you mean. Crazy’s always followed him like a bad penny.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, though as of yet, there have been no incidents that activated the protocols and requests made on that form, if that is any comfort to you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was, but James wasn’t going to mention it. He was busy looking through the listed options. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sex with current relationship partner, with a space to list their information, and a release for that partner to confirm their willingness on 67B.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sex with a current member of the team, with a space for a confirmation of willingness. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James grimaced, looking at the bottom of the list for something less abhorrent. He didn’t find it. Those options were even worse. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sex with a series of unconnected strangers who the undersigned would not meet again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sex with a single stranger who the undersigned would not meet again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He flipped the page over, hoping to find more options. It wasn’t like this was something that was ever going to come up, but he didn't like the idea of agreeing to it when the image made him want to find a freezer and crawl inside. “Thought you said you prepare for everything, agent? Where’s the option for ‘leave me in the de-con shower to jack myself to death’ huh?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a joke. A blatant one. It was also fishing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James didn’t like that Coulson heard the last part louder than the first. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Turn to 67C.” Emotionless, Coulson gestured. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That page was an addendum. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is this a joke?” James asked softly. When Coulson shook his head, James couldn’t stop himself. He read it aloud, looking for the lie, “‘The undersigned member of the Avengers asserts their right to refuse treatment or services during a situation triggering form PV4-67A. Specific exemptions to that refusal to be specified below.’”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Below that was a detailed list clarifying the difference between a sex inducing drug that could be treated via medical intervention vs sexual intervention. What he wanted if it could be handled alone with his right hand. What he wanted if it could be handled only with a partner. Only by receiving penetrative sex. Only by providing penetrative sex. Oral Sex. Mutually present but otherwise singular sex. Loss of coherency. Loss of cogency. Loss of verbal confirmation. What if it was a known risk to his health? To his life? To his sanity? What if it was an unknown risk?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James didn’t pick up the pen until he’d read them all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It seemed like a joke. No one was going to let their asset die because he didn’t want someone touching him. Shit. Teammate, not asset. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The argument held though. No one was going to look at this piece of paper and care what he wanted. They’d make sure he lived, even if he signed his name and told them not to. They’d ignore that, because they needed him around, and because they’d think it was just sex. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James wasn’t sure of much in his head these days. He couldn’t decide on his own name, but he’d found the word asexual while trawling through the internet a few weeks back. He laughed it off at first, but came back later, read enough to know that he’d been one before the war, before Hydra, and realized that not everyone considered sex with a beautiful dame to be a chore on par with taking out the trash. He knew that what Hydra did had changed him. He knew it wasn’t a chore for him anymore. He knew it was a torture. He knew he couldn’t do that again. Willing or not. Conscious or not. He didn’t want it. He didn’t even touch himself these days, and glared at his dick when it got confused in the mornings. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe one day, sure, he’d think about it as a chore instead, but right now? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The future was a crazy place. They had words for things like this now. They had flags and pins and shirts and pride in it. He could be a person and not want sex. He could date a dame and never tumble her into bed. He didn’t have to touch himself and pretend he enjoyed it. Everything he’d faked before the war was optional now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But this was beyond the pale.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It had to be a joke. A joke on the guy who didn’t understand the future. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Coulson wasn’t laughing, though. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James wanted it to be true, but didn’t believe it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wanted to trust that if he checked the right boxes, they wouldn’t touch him, not for anything, but he knew it had to be a lie. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If there was one thing that rubbed off after being around Steve Rogers though, it was optimism. James checked the main box at the top, confirmed that medical intervention was acceptable, then checked No all the way down the line, confirming that under no circumstances did he want them to provide him with or enable him to have sex, not even to save his life. He paused when he was done, liking the way that it made him feel to see it all spelled out: No one would touch him. It was a nice thought. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’d ignore it, but for a moment at least, a little piece of him sang with how good it felt to believe it was true. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The form went into the pile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>James turned to the next one. Skimmed it. Laughed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No chance you’ve had a body swapping experience across dimensions, I don’t believe it. You’re just reading the pulps for these, aren’t you?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I like to be prepared.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. After</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Okay, listen. November was A Lot.  So I'm sorry for the delay. </p><p>But hey look, a conclusion. </p><p>If it feels a little jumpy or disjointed, that's on purpose. Natasha's not doing great for most of this. She's remembering a lot of conversations as intrusive thoughts. </p><p>Same warnings as before for members of the Avengers not having a great understanding of asexuality. They're intent is good, but that doesn't mean they aren't a bit awful.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“I know that,” she said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He would have forgiven you for it. You know he would. Barnes would forgive anybody shy of Hydra for anything they do as long as they weren’t trying to hurt someone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t understand, Nat. The two of you have been together for a while. Until this went down we all figured you two were at it like rabbits.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nat, why wouldn’t you just --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He signed the paperwork.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nat, come on. He’d have forgiven you for loving him enough to ignore it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She knew all of that. She knew it before Clint started, before Sam came to find her. Before Steve yelled in the immediate aftermath. Before her mind repeated and refreshed those conversations as she tried to stay in motion. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>James would have forgiven her for it. Of course he would. He would never hate someone for caring. But that wasn’t the point. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That conversation with Clint was the last time she spoke to any of the Avengers before she got confirmation from the CIA, and packed her things. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After two months of bruising, painful conversations, where Steve’s terror boiled over, time and again, into anger, Natasha couldn’t do it any longer. Tony’s elite medical team was confident that James was stable, but they had no guess about when, or if, he would come out of the coma. Everything they knew about the serum said he should be awake and complaining about bed rest a week ago. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It made the implications of the chemical agent more severe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If it could put a super soldier into a coma, if he couldn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>wake </span>
  </em>
  <span>from that coma, then that compound would have killed anyone else, and it was luck that it hadn’t killed James. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Steve lashed out, and Natasha Romanov, trained to observe everything and everyone around her, read the prevailing winds. There was nothing for her with the Avengers as long as James was down. Maybe not anything for her after either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She went where she needed to go, and she went over every moment of that day, and every word spoken to her in the weeks after, checking and rechecking that she’d made no mistakes. That she’d read the situation right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The resident quarters at the new Shield buildings were grey. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t really Shield. It was a subset of the CIA, but everyone knew it was where the agents had gone when the Triskelion burned down. The wheat was sorted from the chaff, Hydra was sorted from the rest, and the CIA scooped up the ones they could to fold into their teams. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A few years later, they gladly took Natasha’s call, and offered her a full team as fast as they could get the paperwork filed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t really grey. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were plants in the halls and art in the kitchens, and loud music, and tvs playing movies.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was grey around her. The walls were white and the floor was black and the colors cancelled each other out, until there was nothing left but a smear of grey. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam brought her sunflowers last time he came to visit. Clint brought her drawings from his kids. They brought her color, and for a while it stood out against the blended haze. Not for long. It blurred into the background and became a texture shift, but not enough to change the world that had washed away beneath her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course it was grey. Of course that was what haunted her. It made sense. Not dark enough to be condemned, not bright enough to be worth cleaning. A middle ground between right and wrong.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two months after the mission in Belize, with James unchanged, and the collective might of the world’s best doctors and most brilliant minds unable to parse why he wasn’t waking, Natasha knew it was untenable. She filed the paperwork to leave the Avengers. When she allowed herself the luxury of being maudlin, she thought she’d stopped being an Avenger that night, when she aimed a gun at Captain America to stop him from saving his best friend. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know that,” she said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So just lie to him Nat, come on, he’s miserable. You’re miserable. Tell him you’re sorry. Tell Steve you made the wrong call. He’ll lift this stupid order, and he’ll let you in the room.” Tony told her, a week after Belize. “You know how he is.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s never been able to read you, and, look, Nat, I don’t understand it. I don’t. The two of you aren’t exactly virgins, so it doesn’t make any sense to me, and you know how Steve gets about this sort of thing. He’s not going to back down unless you give him an opening.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She let them talk like that. They’d find her, they’d talk and they’d talk, and they’d all say they supported her, but didn’t understand. They’d say they trusted her, but thought she should have forced it. They asked her constantly, from the time Steve issued that order, to the moment she walked out of the Tower, to say she made a mistake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The CIA was happy to have her. Less so when she wouldn’t give them the techniques or proprietary tactics her last team used. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They forgave her when she gave them two of Red Room’s previously uncracked ciphers. They should have asked sooner, it wasn’t as if she still used them. Neither did anyone else, but there were old records that someone in the Intelligence Community wanted to peruse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was constant work on the government’s payroll. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The days of movie marathons and field trips and shared hobbies and shared healing were behind her in the Tower.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her new team was small. Focused. Well trained. Hand selected. Their superiors had yet to assign them a task they hadn’t completed successfully. It wasn’t on the level of averting planetary calamity, but it was work, and she needed something to keep herself tethered to the ground. Their accomplishments earned them a sterling reputation, and it wasn’t long before they were the primary team sent on recon and extraction missions. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Natasha walked through the halls from debrief with her bag over her shoulder, and the same dispassionate face she’d nailed there in the hall of the medical floor in the Tower.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t falter. It didn’t waver. It didn’t give away a whisper of what was in her mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was as much a smear of grey as the halls were. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her team finished an op that morning. Western reaches of Canada. Religious fundamentalists. It was a three day hike to get to them, but that was the biggest obstacle they faced. The actual infiltration and assault were simple. Child’s play. It was what she was best at. She did the whole thing on auto-pilot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She read the situation, and she responded accordingly. That was her greatest value. Steve had the serum. Thor had lightning. Bruce had the Hulk. Tony had his mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She watched and she reacted; jumping in whatever direction the wind told her to go. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve didn’t tell her to leave the Avengers. He didn’t kick her off the team. He didn’t tell her to find a new home. He didn’t tell her she wasn’t welcome. He wouldn’t do that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kept her out of James’ room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gave orders as a medical proxy that Clint, Tony, Coulson and Jarvis collectively tried to convince him to revoke. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He refused. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They fought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not like that day in the hall. No yelling, no threats, no drawn weapons. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But they fought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In words like knives and compliments like poison, they tore at each other. Steve, at his most considerate, demanded to hear her reasoning for risking James’ life. When he was feeling less so, he insinuated all the things Shield or the press ever said about her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know that,” she said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve defended you, Widow. All those press tours, all those times on the news when some bastard started talking about how you’re a ruthless cold war bitch, and I defended you. They wrote up those stories about the Black Widow’s cold, clockwork heart. They still talk about how you’ll double cross and triple cross and how you don’t deserve to be an Avenger, and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>defended </span>
  </em>
  <span>you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve dangled quotes from the press and the government in place of his own insults. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even as she let him, even as she stood and let her friend carve through her gut, she wondered what he would say if he spoke for himself. She was a viper, a snake, the widow in her web, unbothered by who she hurt. Heartless, vile, a traitor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve wanted her to apologize. He wanted her to say she regretted her choice. He wanted her to tell him why she didn't force her way into that room and rape his best friend. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Natasha wouldn’t tell him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t hers to tell. James had never even told her. She had nothing but her training, her observation, and her instincts assuring her she was right. If James considered himself asexual, or if he was even aware the word existed, she didn't know. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve understanding why she’d done it wouldn’t help James when he woke, and the only thing she had left was the comfort that she’d kept him safe. He’d have questions and demands then too, instead of laying the blame at her feet, and comforting his friend. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She couldn’t explain based on something she couldn’t confirm. Telling him that was unacceptable, but telling him, and learning she was wrong was unfathomable.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Six months after she accepted the offer from the CIA, as they rode the last of the transport into the Canadian wilderness, one of her team looked at his communicator and cracked a smile. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Damn, That’s good to hear. Bet Stark’ll throw the party before we get back, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Raines,” Natasha asked flatly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry Commander, one last check before going quiet. Won’t happen again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Raines.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, Just exciting that he finally woke up. You musta been thrilled to hear it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Natasha lifted an eyebrow and waited for the agent to deactivate the comm screen and stow it. He nodded apologetically, sat up a little straighter. Looked away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tapped on her wrist mounted comm screen. Tony had insisted. She assured him the CIA would outfit her for her missions, but Tony was Tony. She had three spares in her quarters, and received an updated box every other month. It wasn’t connected to the Avengers frequency during a fight anymore; she wasn’t an Avenger anymore. It worked for communication though. The flood of memory every time the light came on made her shiver. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was permanently set to silent now because the beep was enough to send ice along her veins. Sometimes, late in the night, when sleep eluded her, and the grey blur of the halls and floor and the flower and the memories threatened to swallow her whole, she’d turn it on, and watch the mild fluctuation in his heart rate and breathing. She’d sit with it until her own heart aligned to the flash of the pulse monitor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was as close to him as she could get. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Checking it again while sitting next to her team, she was grateful it was always on silent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that it needed to be. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were no messages waiting for her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She forced a refresh, in case the connection was weak - as if Tony would tolerate them losing signal for something so paltry as the wilderness - and got nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Natasha paged to the memos from the CIA, and found nothing there either. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She flicked to the screen of vitals, saw the little differences that indicated a change. Waking, but not awake. She flicked back to any available memos, and turned to her teammate. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The information isn’t being widely released yet, Raines,” she reprimanded, fishing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, Commander. I would never breach security. ‘Sides who would I tell out here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m more concerned with how you knew at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Raines shrugged. “Nikki always gets the Avengers gossip.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The transport pulled onto a gravel trailhead and slowed to stop. They had to take the rest on foot. She powered down her wrist-mount, compartmentalized, and lead the hike. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Waking wasn’t the same as awake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It meant nothing that she hadn’t been contacted, and it didn’t change the task in front of her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And if James woke up and agreed with his best friend, she could spare him the pain of asking her to go. Of telling her it was over. He wouldn’t have to say it, and she wouldn’t have to hear it, which was an excuse, but one of the rare comforts she allowed herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know that,” she said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If it wasn’t something you were comfortable with, you know that any of us would have been there for him, Nat. Coulson could have gotten someone.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam tried to help. He always did. That was </span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>greatest value. He could look at the heartbreak and the brutality of the world, and find the strength to keep helping, keep smiling, keep finding ways to make the others smile. When Sam came to talk to her, it was a therapy session, hidden around baked goods and gifts. She appreciated him trying. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She did know. Anyone else on the team, any of the support staff in the Tower, the average passerby in the street would have taken over for her, and walked into that room with James, stripped and pushed until he forgot himself and did what the toxin wanted. They would have saved his life. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m just saying; I know you didn’t ask us to help you then, but if you need something now, you can ask, and I don’t care what Cap says about it, I’ll be there for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam was a good man. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She didn’t ask for anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seven days in the snowy wilderness later, when they’d completed the mission and were back on the transport, headed for the jet in Prince George, she powered on her communicator. No messages. One memo, formally clarifying the swirling rumors, to inform the former Shield agents that Barnes was conscious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One memo, forwarded from Sam, with the equivalent from the Avengers’ staff. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing else. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Natasha compartmentalized, put the flurry of pain back into its box, and started on the mission report while they crossed the country, as her team chattered around her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seven days after months in a coma wasn’t much. Waking from a coma was a process. Recovery was a process. It was his right to avoid her if he wanted to. It was his right to confirm that Steve was right and she was wrong, and request she never work with the Avengers again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She knew that, and she’d defend him on that if anyone tried to disagree. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Debrief went smoothly, just like the mission. She couldn’t remember a word she said by the time she left the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The hallway had a cabinet just off from her quarters, against the opposite wall. It was an emergency armory, as if the agents sleeping nearby weren’t armed day and night. Someone put a dent into the side panel while she was away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Natasha leaned her head against her door for a moment, keycard limp in her hand, eyes on the black floor, breathing through the grief. Slipping inside, dropping the bag, she saw the small smear of grey she’d left on the pristine white before she began stripping off her uniform. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would be easy to throw the reinforced bodysuit into the corner, easy to throw herself into the corner of a shower, easy to break down crying, easy to bring the vodka with her. It would be easy to let the pounding, echoing doubt and horror swell up and consume her. It would be so easy to surrender. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Natasha folded her suit into the bag for the on-site cleaner, and dropped it into pickup. She poured a single shot of vodka. Drank it. Her boots settled in place on the platform in the small closet. The water cranked on, and the temperature rose. Steam drifted in the air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A towel set onto the lid of the toilet. A pair of loose sweatpants. A tank. A fresh razor. The sugar scrub that got the trailing smell of blood out of skin and hair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would have been easy that night, too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or when Steve told her she didn’t deserve to be with James.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or on any of the missions when her new team didn’t quite have her back, and their enemies almost had an angle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Easy. Or maybe: easier. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That didn’t make it the right choice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She poured a second shot. Drank it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Stripped out of the compression underclothes, and retreated to the shower. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know that,” she said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He gets stubborn when it comes to Bucky.” Tony told her, the one time he came to visit, to apologize, after she left the Tower. He laughed, corrected himself, “He gets even more stubborn, and he’s already got the will of - of - I don’t know, something really stubborn. He lost him once already, and he thinks he should have done more back then. This is…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure, Tony.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s still Steve though, so if you explain --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“James knew what he was doing when he signed that form.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The water was scalding against her skin, and the burn as she scrubbed, head to toe, was almost enough to keep her grounded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony was a smart man. Steve knew James for decades. Sam was a therapist. Clint knew what it was to be controlled and reclaim himself in the aftermath. Bruce knew how to heal. None of them were trained to observe the way she was, but that was only the best she had to offer, not a guarantee she was right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Coulson thought she was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Coulson trusted paperwork. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If there was nothing from James, she could understand that. Recovery took time. There was no word he was upright, only conscious.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was nothing from any of them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If she allowed herself, she could understand that too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Methodically, she washed her hair, rinsed it clean, worked the deep conditioner through to the roots, and stepped out of the spray to let it saturate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know that,” she said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You never really cared about him at all did you? It was just convenient. He was so hurt by them, and you saw that, and you let him think you cared so you could have him wrapped around your finger. Red Room taught you well didn’t they? You could twist him around to what you wanted him to be without even trying hard. You wanted your little toy, so you made him what you wanted, and you never cared what happened to him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve only crossed that line once. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tony was in the room for it, and he stopped it going farther. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a seed though. One that found fertile ground in the fears that plagued her. The best analysis of a mark was done with emotional distance. She let James close, closer than she’d let anyone in years, closer than Clint. She read him easily, and delighted in all the ways they meshed together, slotting like pieces of a puzzle, with traumas that echoed and boundaries that rhymed. She’d fallen in love with the way she’d found a mirror. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was fractured when they met in the Tower. He was healing. Rebuilding himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would be easy for a Black Widow to turn him into what she wanted, instead of who he was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the hundredth time, she pushed the fear away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She grabbed the razor and the gel and, with practiced motions, shaved her legs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was important to keep a weapon in peak condition. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Scrub again to exfoliate. One leg then the other. Depilatory cream. Wait while the steam swirled in the air. Rinse. Scrub again, softer this time. Rinse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The water stung where it ran over scratches and scrapes and sores from the mission. Nothing severe enough to require treatment, just reminders of the work. The sugar or the razor, she didn’t know which one, had left her with a tiny bit of blood on her thigh. A little smear of red against her skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It would be so easy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She dialed the water out of scalding, into tepid, and rinsed the conditioner away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It helped to dampen the rising haze from the vodka, and she reached for a towel. Moisturizer. Toothbrush. A single braid down her back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was as far as she got before she succumbed, checking her communicator. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were no longer readouts from monitors and machines. That was good. It meant he wasn’t connected to them anymore. That meant he was improving. That meant he was cleared from medical and able to go home. Able to communicate with others. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shut it down again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t her right, but she reached for the sweatpants she’d stolen from James. They swallowed her, and she had to cinch the waist ridiculously, but she wore them with a tank, and she could lie to herself for a few minutes. That he was in the next room. That he was coming over soon. That he was hers. That she read him right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another shot of vodka. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d need to empty the bottle to fully silence her head, and on an empty stomach, the cost tomorrow would have been too high.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She made a simple soup, barely more than broth and noodles, chewing on a protein bar as it cooked, ladled it into a large mug, and retreated to a chair. The rooms were furnished by the Agency, and while many of the agents had pieces removed to replace them with something more personal, Natasha hadn’t bothered. It was terrible furniture. Uncomfortable and ugly in the way mass-produced, utilitarian things were. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All those months, she held off making her quarters into a permanent residence. None of it would matter if she was right, and she wouldn’t care if she was wrong. There were few marks on the space to show she lived in it. It was temporary, and she was a pass-through inhabitant. A bit of smoke in the wind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But there were no messages on her communicator. It was time to start thinking about how to proceed. She needed quality bedding. The chairs were uncomfortable. The dishes didn’t match. One of the bulbs hummed and flickered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the morning she would reach out to the Avengers. Confirm. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sam would tell her gently, but Steve would tell her the full truth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the morning she would contact Steve. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The communicator was across the room, angled so she would see it if the screen lit. It didn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her team had landed late in the evening, past nine at night, and it was easily past one now. There was no reason to expect a message. While she stared fruitlessly at the dark screen, in silence except for the subaudible thumps and movement of neighbors and agents, she drank her soup, and let herself savor a few moments of lying to herself about what the morning would bring. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was easy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She sank into the imagined relief of being right, of knowing that she’d read him well, and seen what he wanted, and made the right move. She let herself believe that he was in the Tower, grateful for keeping the others out, grateful for following his requests. She let herself live in a world where it was clear and simple, and James waking didn’t come tainted by the fear that he’d woken thinking she didn’t love him enough to touch him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a nice world. A nice thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>James would be grateful and sweet. He would hold her tight, and explain to the others. The team would apologize for letting her leave. Steve would apologize for the things he implied and work to make up for what he outright said. She would move back to the Tower, rejoin the Avengers, fall asleep with James’ heartbeat beneath her cheek so when she woke from nightmares she could know he was safe. He would hold onto her, and confirm what she thought she’d seen. They would talk and explain themselves, their boundaries, and their identities, and then they’d watch terrible reality television and eat late night delivery food. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe she could hold onto that dream through the night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Steve woke up at five. It was only a few more hours before she’d call and find out how much of it was lost forever. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She set the dregs of the soup aside and rose for bed. Went back. Rinsed the mug. Put the rest of the soup away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She needed to sleep, whether she wanted to or not. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another shot. Another. A third. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a nice fantasy. The thought of it was enough to ease the fear for a moment. The Avengers would do everything they could to make it better. They’d hear, and they’d listen and they’d understand, and they wouldn’t look at her like an accidental monster. Like a traitor. They would see what she’d sacrificed, and what James meant to her, and in time, the ice that came when she thought about them would melt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Only a few more hours before she learned how wrong she was. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Footsteps in the hall so late at night caught her attention. They were nearby, but slow, not someone rushing to a departing flight, or reporting for duty. That was intriguing enough to hold her focus, and she set the bottle back on the table before she poured another. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The footsteps stopped near her door. Beside the armory unit if she had to guess. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then it was silent for long minutes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She stood in her quarters, with cold feet despite what she was wearing. Someone stood outside her door, and she didn’t know who it was. A different approach and she’d have pulled a weapon already. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grateful for the distraction, abandoning her need to rest, Natasha walked slowly to the door, silent, and fixated. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As she got there, she heard them shift, and heard the slide of fabric along a wall. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But she didn’t hear them leave. They were waiting there, and by their location, they were waiting for her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Training was too deeply ingrained for her to rest now. It was also too deep for her to open the door without waiting for more evidence. An injured agent would have called for help. Anyone coming to visit with good news would have called. Or knocked. Anyone coming to attack her wouldn’t wait. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But an Avenger? Someone sent to deliver a message, sent to soften it with a kind face and gentle words? They might wait. They might gather their thoughts. They might sit on the ground outside her door until morning to avoid waking her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the not knowing started to burn, Natasha cursed the door and the CIA in general. She was spoiled by the Tower’s infinitely accessible cameras. This place didn’t even have a peep hole. Whoever was outside shifted at the sound of her obscenity, and she acted before they could. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wrenching open the door, hand on a gun out of sight, Natasha moved into a better position to survey the hall, and froze. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the ground, leaning into the corner made by the armory unit, back pressed to the wall, sat James. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dressed in one of those worn henleys he liked so much, looking thinner than he should, drawn and tired and utterly, blindingly beautiful, he didn’t move. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither did she. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her mind spun, trying to fall into training to read the situation, but looping back to the sight of him, outside her door in the middle of the night, looking exhausted, with a light of something joyful in his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a jacket rolled to use as a pillow sitting on his shoulder; he’d ridden his bike over.  There was a fading bruise on his knuckles, but no reports of any Avengers activity. His boots were tied off kilter, a little loose, like he’d rushed getting them on. There was a kink in the hair falling around his face from being pulled back in a tie all day, then loosened for bed. He was armed, but she could only spot indications of two, not his usual six. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It took her longer than it should. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was buzzing with the vodka, had been awake for too long, had been bracing for </span>
  <em>
    <span>disaster </span>
  </em>
  <span>for too long, and the impossible was outside her door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She knew she was right. It was the only thing that made sense. It was the only reason he would come. The only reason he would be sitting and waiting for her. It was the only thing she could see, but months and months of waiting, and hearing the echo of their friends’ words, days of ringing silence from the team, and years of fears compounding, kept her from believing it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Swallowing around her suddenly dry throat, face shocked to stillness, terrified of revealing anything, she asked the question that would confirm it, without having to say the words. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What did you punch?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James wasn’t well, he wasn’t his normal healthy self, but the slow, proud smirk bloomed outwards until he was beaming at her. He always enjoyed it when she proved her skills. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A couple of walls. This cabinet a few days ago. And about an hour ago,” He paused, licked his lips, “I punched Steve.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was the line for her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That was all she needed to hear to </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Red Room taught her to cry like a performance. During missions and honeytraps, as a distraction or seduction, she cried prettily: single, delicate tears and soft sniffles. Now, she sobbed. It was a harsh sound, and she clapped a hand over her eyes to hide from the moment. Relieved, yes, but it was the months of withheld reaction that was doing this. It was half a year with nothing but readouts on a screen to tell her he was alive building up like an avalanche, and collapsing all at once. It was all of her rejected doubts that she’d calcified into protection, but which kept her stilted and pained. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was knowing she might get to keep him after all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>That first broken sob was still in the air when he got to her, knowing without asking what she needed. James picked her up, got her inside, and let her bury her face in his shoulder, settling into a chair with her in his lap. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the first, raw outburst faded into weaker, hitching gasps, and the flood of tears became a river, he loosened his hold on her. One hand rubbed over the outside of her thigh, while the other massaged her scalp and neck, preemptively finding the places where she carried tension. Too shaken to react or move, she let him, and soaked in everything once she was aware enough to hear him speak. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“--deserve ya, but good Christ am I glad I have ya on my side. Like no one else, sweetheart. Ain’t nobody else that’s as strong as you are. Ain’t nobody else as good as you, and I don’t care if he is my best friend, I’m gonna punch him another dozen times if he doesn’t get his ass over here in the morning to apologize.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned to press a soft kiss to her forehead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never even told ya, but ya knew, didn’t you sweetheart? Don’t know what I’d do without ya, and I’d be worried you were pissed at me for getting hit with that stuff if it weren’t for how tight you’re holding on. Pretty sure you’re ruining this shirt right now. Never gonna get the stretch from your hands out of it. That’s okay though, ain’t it? Don’t mind the proof of you holding on to me. Just like these.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He picked at the fabric of the sweatpants, then resumed the slow glide of his hand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Knew ya took em, and I’ve seen em on ya before, but sweetheart, can’t tell ya what it meant to me to see ya like that when you opened the door.” Another kiss. “Like proof ya hadn’t let me go. Like ya wanted me here. Didn’t even know you and your team were back til a couple hours ago, when Jarvis woke me up, and then Stevie and I had a bit of a disagreement when he heard me heading for the door. M’sorry it took me so long to get over here, but I didn’t wanna wake you up after a mission if ya needed your sleep. Bout died when I realized you were awake in there. Thought I’d have a coupla hours to plan what I was gonna say to ya.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Natasha managed a little interrogative noise, and James paused to hug her closer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There ya are. Nope, don’t worry about moving if you’re cozy. Let me take care of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were in a </span>
  <em>
    <span>coma</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” she protested.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And now I’m not. ‘Sides, I’ve had worse, so now it’s my turn to take care of you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I watched the videos of ya, sweetheart, sitting out there, cause you didn’t wanna leave me but you knew I didn’t want... That. Know what ya said to Stevie too. Talked to Coulson about it. Already knew you were the best at what ya do, but sweetheart, you ain’t the only one sitting in this chair that knows how to read a mark.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He slowed down massaging her scalp, and brushed a hand along her jaw, trying to get her to lift her head. It was too much; she wanted to hide, but he was asking, and she knew he wouldn’t if it wasn’t important. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi, love,” he whispered when she made eye contact. The wear of months spent hooked into machines was more obvious from so close. He was still a super soldier, still bouncing back ridiculously fast, but it was there, reminding her how near they got to the other road. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wanna make sure you hear me on this, yeah? I know you already worked it all out, but some things need to be said out loud.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve been listening to Sam,” she joked, scrubbing at her eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep. Asked him all sorts of stuff the last couple days.” He ran his thumb around the curve of her eye, and his accent faded as he tried to sound official, “Natasha, thank you for trusting what I wanted in that situation. You made the right choice. You made the choice I wanted, even though you didn’t have any proof of it, and you still stuck by me, even though you didn’t know what was going to happen. Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You almost died.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, and you knew that was a risk. You were watching, and you knew what you were risking, but you trusted me, and you didn’t -- It wasn’t an option when I was growing up. Weren’t a real man if you weren’t chasing skirts every night. Just thought it was one of those things, like having to shave each morning. Thought it was a chore we all did. I know what Stevie said to you, and I guess I should have talked to him about it sooner, but it didn’t seem to matter much ‘til now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s words for it now, which is a damn sight easier than figuring out my own. Talked to Steve already, told him that it’s older than Hydra getting into my head.” He hesitated, “Told him I didn’t check the wrong box on that form on accident. Told him I’m asexual.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Natasha let him say it, noting how the word sounded new in his mouth, noting the almost ignorable signs of caution. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” she answered, “we are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That brought back his dazzling grin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But that wasn’t why I didn’t force you,” she rushed to explain. “It wasn’t because I didn’t want to touch you. If you’d asked for assistance or if you’d --”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>James leaned forward and kissed her, gentle as anything, but still ridiculously effective at shutting her up.  He pulled back, and set their foreheads together. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am gonna have to punch Steve again for putting that in your head, sweetheart. I never doubted that. It was killing ya to sit out there and do nothing, and ya did it anyway cause you knew it was what I wanted. Christ, don’t know what I did to deserve ya.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smirked, “I’m your payment for seventy years of torture, remember?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In that case, they overpaid me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a well-worn joke between them, and the nonsense of it freed a little more of the pain in her chest. It was like proof that he was really himself, and she wasn’t about to wake alone in a blur of grey, meaningless life. She wasn’t imagining it or inventing it, or seeing what she wanted in him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t have to - Natasha, I swear if you tell me you want to stay here, I’m not gonna argue about it, I’ll tell Coulson I need a transfer - so you don’t have to come back to the Tower, and the Avengers.” He brushed away the newest fall of tears. “But like I said, love. Not the only one sitting here that knows how to read a mark. I know what the team means to you. I know what being there, and having a home means to you. And I’m saying, I ain’t had a chance to look around the place, but I’m guessing you walked away from your home cause Stevie made it painful for ya. And I’m guessing you haven’t made a new one yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Natasha had a moment of sharp dissonance, not wanting to put any weight on him, not wanting to ask for anything from him, but leaning instinctively closer. She hid in his shoulder again, and nodded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thought so.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not sure if I have one now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His body went tense beneath her for a moment, before he consciously forced himself to relax. “Sorry, sorry, sweetheart. Was just thinking about what I’m gonna do to that dumbass punk. Don’t have to make any kind of choice right now. We can wait until tomorrow. Wait until he gets over here to beg you to forgive him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The overblown protection made her huff a wet laugh. “Captain America doesn’t beg, James.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure. But Steve Rogers is gonna.” They sat in silence for a bit, until Natasha realized her finger was tapping at his metal shoulder in time with the beat of his heart. When she stopped, James sighed, and softly offered, “Don’t have to see him if you don’t want. Don’t have to open the door. Don’t have to listen. We can make him sit in it for as long as you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Cruel.” She labelled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He hurt you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because he thought he’d lost </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” She shifted in his lap. “I’ll talk to him, if he comes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I’ll punch him if he’s an ass.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can punch him myself, thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey.” James interrupted their normal humor, and made her look at him again, “Sorry sweetheart, but this is one of those things I need you to hear. I’m on your side. Never could have imagined someone doing what you did for me. Can’t imagine how big a leap of faith that was for you, and you did it. You did that for me, so I’m gonna spend some time trying to even the debt a bit. If that means I get to punch my best friend every time he shows up here, that’s what I’m gonna do. If that means telling you that you’re welcome back to the Avengers, and holding onto ya while you fill out the paperwork, that’s what I’m gonna do, and I’ll knock the socks off anyone that argues about it. And if you don’t wanna come back, then I guess I’ve got paperwork of my own to file, don’t I?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wetly, she asked, “Are you sure the punching isn’t for you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe a little.” He winked, “Come on, we’re going to bed, and you’re gonna turn into the octopus I know you are, and we’ll deal with tomorrow, tomorrow, yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t ask. He already knew her answer, and carried her to the narrow, uncomfortable bed, and sighed happily when she clung to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was already most of the way to being tomorrow, with the light outside bleeding into predawn grey, caught between the night and the day, but it wasn’t still. It wasn’t stuck. She didn’t know which it would choose, which way the wind would blow now that James was at her side, but it would </span>
  <em>
    <span>change</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It wouldn’t be a blur of color fading out to meaninglessness without direction or drive. It wouldn’t be hopeless. It wouldn’t be stuck waiting. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiled as she fell asleep.</span>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>told ya there'd be a happy ending.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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